


Alone Is All I Have - Alone Protects Me

by dammitsully



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bullying, Childhood, Gen, Homosexuality, School
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 11:09:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6049390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dammitsully/pseuds/dammitsully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>12 year-old Sherlock moves together with his family into the city: new school, new people, new experiences.<br/>However, things do not turn out the way he had imagined them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone Is All I Have - Alone Protects Me

**Author's Note:**

> This work of fiction may not fully align with BBC Sherlock canon, however, it is just one way of explaining Sherlock's character and why he has become that way. Also, this is based on Switzerland's school system where it is possible that a 12 year-old and a 19 year-old are visiting the same school.
> 
> This is my very first fan fiction and has not been proof read by anyone else - please let me know if you find inconsistencies or other kinds of errors. I would appreciate that a lot!

“Stay true to yourself…” He whispers to himself just as a cargo train passes by on the railway right below him, leaving him half deaf. He takes his hands from his ears and puts them back onto the guitar in his lap. “…whatever that means.”  
Sherlock is sitting on a wall on the outer rim of the forest behind his new school, which is situated on a steep hill. From there he has a nice overview of the eastside of the city, the industrial part of it. “I was perfectly content with our home – with my life – out in the green” he thinks as he watches the smoke of a nearby factory rise. Sherlock has never wanted this, moving to a city. He was not prepared for such a huge change.

As he watches the ashen smoke rise higher and higher, obscuring the clear blue sky, he sinks into his memories again.

 

He remembers their garden where he used to lie on the grass and read on sunny summer days and how he camped there in his children’s tent during clear and crisp autumn nights, just for adventure’s sake. He remembers the shed in the corner of the garden where he spent many fresh spring nights hiding from the world and reading “Treasure Island” and “Moby Dick” when he was a little kid. He misses these spots. But most of all he misses his spacious room in the attic and how loudly the floorboards creaked even if he was trying to sneak.

It used to be Mycroft’s room. That is, before Sherlock reached the age of six. A month before Sherlock’s sixth birthday Mycroft jokingly told him he would give him his room as a birthday present if Sherlock could manage to beat him at Cluedo. Sherlock had spent every free minute until the day before his birthday playing the game, understanding the game, _knowing_ the game. The look on Mycroft’s face when his little brother correctly deduced who Dr. Black’s murderer was, was priceless. The game was over. Sherlock rushed into the attic, ripped Mycroft’s “You Only Live Twice” poster off the wall and pinned the periodic table to the now free spot. From that day on that room became his sanctuary, a place where nobody disturbed him. He would spend days on end without leaving it. That was also the time when he became obsessed with detective stories; he had tasted the sweet flavour of victory and the thrill of a correct deduction and he could not get enough of it.

 

He chuckles, murmuring “You don’t know what you have until it’s gone, huh?” and pulls a small pouch out of the right pocket of his sweater and fine white little sheets of paper out of the other and starts wrapping the contents of the pouch on the backside of the guitar into the sheets until it becomes an even roll.

 

“My new room isn’t even half the size of the previous,” he had complained to his parents “and the apartment is so small there is no room for avoiding Mycroft’s annoying face.” Mycroft had ignored all of this. He knew better. He knew what was truly troubling his little brother and although Sherlock was trying to avoid thinking about it, every time he did, he could feel his chest tighten and his heartbeat quicken. He never told anybody of course. But Mycroft knew. He had always known.

“Do you want to introduce yourself…” the new teacher asked Sherlock in front of nineteen other 12 year-olds like him, some of which looked at him like he was the eighth wonder of the world and some could not even bother making an interested impression “…or shall I?”

Sherlock did not hear her. Time slowed down for him when thirty-eight eyes turned to look at him and only him at this moment; he could feel them on his skin. He looked through the class, examining each of his new classmates’ faces and registering all their movements. There were seven girls and twelve boys, all with fancy hairstyles and expensive clothes. There was that one girl who had obviously coloured her hair blonde to match her tasteless pink dress. Another was wearing far too much make-up for her age. A boy who seemed to be the “toughest” amongst the male teenagers, judging from his firm and big stature, had his hair spiked up and was wearing chains on his belt, which jangled annoyingly every time he moved. His desk neighbour was of smaller physique, but had a face so frighteningly ugly, it made up for what he was missing in body volume. Sherlock turned to his right and saw a blonde boy in a beige polo shirt and blue denim jeans. He examined him with a short glance. The boy was different from those supposed alpha males, he was smaller, softer, friendlier. Suddenly, the boy’s big blue eyes were staring back at him in anticipation. Embarrassed, Sherlock turned to face his sweaty hands he had folded in front of him, feeling the warm blood rush to his face.

 

By the time Sherlock came to himself and was able to perceive his surroundings at normal speed again, the teacher had moved on with her class, apparently having already introduced him. He realised this as soon as he read his name on the blackboard. She, Mrs White he recalled, however was now walking towards him for some reason. Slight panic arose inside the nervous Sherlock, blind to the fact that she actually intended to address the periodic table on the wall behind him. “Of course – calm down, Sherlock, focus!” He tried to put himself at ease. She continued, pointing to the wall. “Last week, Philip and Sally presented Hydrogen, the first element of the periodic table and explained why it has the number one. Who knows the name of the second ele…” – “Helium…” Sherlock interrupted Mrs White, unaware that he had just said that out loud. He froze for a second when he realised what he had done, his eyes wide open in shock directed to the floor beneath his chair. “What was that, Sherlock? Do you know the answer?” Sherlock hesitated but then nodded. “Helium. Named after the Greek god of the sun, Helios. Atomic number two. Part of the Noble Gases. Low reactivity. Atomic weight four. Melting point zero point nine five K. Boiling point four point two two K. Thus found in gaseous state.” He looked up to Mrs White whose jaw was threateningly close to falling off. “Shall I continue?” he asked hesitantly, tilting his head forty-five degrees to his left.

He was calm all of a sudden, as if speaking had loosened the knot in his chest. He felt strangely confident, even energised. That is, until he turned around to face nineteen incredulously staring pupils. The alpha idiot was grinning maliciously from ear to ear. He felt insecurity taking over again. “Sherlock, that was remarkable! Why don’t you and- uh- yes, Cullen...” – “Who’s Cullen?” Sherlock thought. “…present Helium next week?” asked Mrs White after having collected herself.

 

As Sherlock later found out, Cullen was the name of the blue-eyed, blonde boy with the nice polo shirt and jeans. And then, two days later, he was sitting on a pile of chemistry books he had brought with him along with two floating purple balloons in the middle of Sherlock’s room and was staring at him. “You mean to tell me you’ve already written our presentation?” – “Yes.” – “Why?” – “More efficient.” There was silence for a moment. Then suddenly Cullen started laughing. “You quite like chemistry, don’t you?” Cullen asked grinning as soon as he had spotted the periodic table on the wall above Sherlock’s desk. Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead he picked up the dossier he had prepared for them and handed it to Cullen. “I’ve marked the passages you need to say. There will be a placard too, I haven’t gotten round to doing it yet though. I’ll sho- “ – “Am I supposed to learn all this by heart?” Cullen interrupted him, horror on his face, skimming through the ten page hand-written dossier. “Yes. I’ll show you the placard as soon as it’s finished”, Sherlock concluded his half verbalised sentence, sat down at his table again and peered contently over to the still shocked Cullen.

“What’s with the balloons?” Sherlock inquired. They had been annoying him the whole time, bumping into each other with a soft thud. Cullen put the dossier aside, stood up and started looking around. “I thought it might be fun experimenting with helium. I heard it makes your voice funny when you inhale it.” Cullen glimpsed at him. Sherlock frowned. “But then again, I think you might not be into– the Beatles!?” Cullen exclaimed excitedly, grabbing a cassette from one of the shelves and showing it to Sherlock with a turn on his heel. The latter felt his cheeks blush. With a sudden and vigorous movement he yanked the cassette out of Cullen’s hand and Cullen flinched back in surprise. “Why do you care?” Sherlock hissed, putting the cassette back to its place. “I’m sorry ok…” Cullen hesitated for a moment. “I was just wondering if we could listen to it, but never mind now.”

Sherlock seemed to regret his action. But it was not his fault. Mycroft used to tease him incessantly because of his love for The Beatles until he stopped listening to them. However, the term ‘sorry’ was not in Sherlock’s vocabulary, so he just stared bewildered into the air, with his back to Cullen. “Anyway,” the blue-eyed boy continued with an annoyed undertone to his voice “can I use the bathroom?” – “Out the door and then left.” Cullen closed the door behind him as he walked out.

 

“Seriously? You’ve never done this before?” Sherlock asked Cullen with an unusually high pitched voice, trying to repress a laugh, when the latter returned. He was sitting on the floor with a balloon in his hand, holding the other balloon towards Cullen. ‘Hey Jude’ was playing in the background. Cullen chuckled. He did not know what he had expected to find when he came back but certainly not this. He closed the door behind him, took the balloon and sat down next to Sherlock who was leaning against the bed. They looked at each other as they sat side by side.

“He looks so soft” Sherlock thought again as he traced Cullen’s features with his eyes. He noticed a black oil stain on the boy’s white t-shirt, and the same oil smudged over his dark blue jeans. He must have arrived by bicycle. His eyes wandered up again. When their eyes locked, he noticed that Cullen’s eyes were not simply blue, but their turquoise iris flowed into a brown-ish green hue on the rim of their pupils. Sherlock cleared his throat. “I bet I can sing better with helium than you without” he challenged Cullen.

 

“And any time you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain. Don't carry the world upon your shoulder…” Sherlock is humming the song while staring up to the sky with cold eyes. He is lying on his back on the wall, the guitar leaning against it, and observing the different formation of clouds on a pastel blue background. He takes a puff from the ignited roll he had prepared and immediately feels it make his head lighter.

“Cullen seemed to be different.” Sherlock ponders. “He seemed to be kinder.” He replays that afternoon again and again in his head, looking for a mistake, a clue that could have given Cullen away.

“You play the violin I see. I like the violin. Do you also play classical pieces?” – “Exclusively” Sherlock replied. “Nice. I’ve just started playing drums. My friends told me the violin would be too gay, so it was either the guitar or the drums. My girlfriend and her friends love it.”

 

Was that where he had messed up?

 

“I’m meeting them later at school. Want to join us?”

 

Should he have said yes to that? There was nothing else. Cullen even laughed at his stupid joke about helium. Nobody had ever laughed about it. He seemed to be different. He seemed to be nice.

Sherlock took another long puff and closed his eyes.

 

“Hey Gaylock!” Sherlock saw a group of boys from his new class walk towards his table in the canteen, where he was sitting alone the day after. He could tell by the sound of the rattling of chains who was leading the lot. Sherlock tried to ignore them and continue reading his book. They would not let him.

“We heard all about your romantic afternoon with our blonde here.” The chubby boy’s lean friend pointed towards a guy who was lingering close behind the group. Sherlock looked up and saw Cullen looking to the floor, obviously avoiding Sherlock’s gaze. Sherlock was perplexed. He did not understand. He was so confused he stoically stared at Cullen, unable to move. “What has happened between yesterday and now?”

From the corner of his eye Sherlock saw Mycroft. His brother had started at the same school as a senior and was chatting with some of his classmates outside the canteen at that time. They seemed to have an entertaining conversation, but not interesting enough for Mycroft to use his real smile. Sherlock could tell. “What does Mycroft have that I don’t? What’s wrong with me?!”

Suddenly Sherlock snapped. He could not take all this anymore: The hatred towards him, people’s ignorance, him not being accepted – him being different. He slammed the book shut, grabbed his bag and his violin case and walked off without granting the boys another second of his attention. “Where are you going, Sherlock? Listening to that gay band?” the ugly one shouted shouted after him, resulting in the whole group bursting into laughter. This caught Mycroft’s attention and before he could grasp the situation Sherlock rushed past him and out of the building. As soon as Mycroft saw the gloomy Cullen in the crowd, his facial expression changed from alarmed to worried.

 

Sherlock did not know where his legs were taking him, but his pace was fast, he was almost running. He felt his chest burn with anger, his heart was racing. He had clenched his fist so hard around the handle of his violin case that his knuckles turned white. Headed towards the forest at the end of it, he crossed the basketball field and stumbled and fell over an unexpected bump on the floor. As fast as he could, Sherlock straightened himself, making sure nobody saw him. His trousers had ripped on his right knee, he had grazed his skin and blood was running down his leg. Sherlock almost threw his violin across the field with rage but he fought hard not to lose his temper, ignoring the lump that was now slowly but surely forming in his throat.

The trees of the forest had encircled Sherlock, dimming the light to a dark shade of green. He walked and walked, not looking back, until he reached the outer rim of the forest. There was a small fire place, unused it seemed, circumscribed by a waist-high wall from where he could see the city.

Sherlock let himself fall against the wall, drew his knees close to his chest and burst into tears. He was sobbing uncontrollably, barely able to get enough air. His whole body was trembling, cheeks all wet from his tears. He cried until the weight on his chest had lifted and he could breathe normally again. He cried until the sleeves of his sweater could not soak up any more of his tears. Then he just sat there, listening to the sound of nature, his vision still blurry. He picked up his violin, laid his head softly on it and started playing with his long, trembling fingers. The soft notes of ‘Air on the G string’ started echoing in the forest and Sherlock calmed down again.

 

He opens his eyes. Dark clouds have started forming between the mountains behind the city and the sky. Two months have passed since that horrible day, Sherlock remembers. Two months of angst and seclusion. He had lost weight. He noticed that the previous week when his trousers suddenly started sliding down his hips.

 

He has tried to forget the betrayal that lay behind the turquoise eyes.

 

His thoughts wander to his old room again.

 

There was a small blackboard on the wall opposite the entrance, and facing that blackboard there stood a sofa. He used to write the clues from the detective stories on the wall in order to keep track of the facts while reading and trying to solve the mystery before the main character. Most of the time however, he failed to see the obvious, the simple matters, resulting in him lying frustrated on the sofa, face buried in the pillow. He always wanted everything to be clever.

As time passed by he started to use the blackboard only seldom to draw a chart or a list. Most of the information he could now store away in his mind palace. He had read about that memory technique some time ago and had started it as an exercise, but the room grew each time he put more information in it. He started using his own room as his ‘memory shelf’ but soon he had filled their entire house with information he may or may not need in the future.  


In the past two months his mind palace has become Sherlock’s home again, his sanctuary. Whenever he is not talking to Bob, Sherlock sits on the sofa in his old room and tries to sort out his mind.

 

“You’ve got talent, kid.” A voice interrupted the soothing sound of his violin. Sherlock stopped playing and turned to face the source of the voice. It was a middle-aged man, carrying a guitar on is back, wearing an oversized black sweater with numerous stains and holes in it and beige trousers that looked even more worn out than the sweater. The pieces of red canvas on his feet looked more like anything else than shoes. The man’s ginger hair was dirty, not washed in days, just as his face and his beard had not been trimmed for weeks. He smelled funny too but Sherlock could not figure out what it was as he had never smelled it before.

“Shouldn’t you be at school? What are you doing out here in the forest all alone?” Sherlock ignored him, put away his violin and wanted to wander off when the man started talking again. “I don’t mean no harm, kid.” He stepped closer. “Heard you play the past few days when I walked by here. Thought I’d say hi.” Sherlock stood still, contemplating the man. He was afraid, of course. You never know with these types. But he managed to keep his emotions under control. “What’s your name, kid?” The man asked, waiting vainly for a response. Sherlock walked to the wall and looked over the city, resting his arms on the concrete, still not sure how to respond.

“I’m Bob. Homeless as you might’ve guessed.” He forced a smile to his face. “I like the songs you play. Who wrote these?” There was silence for a brief moment. “Bach. Johann Sebastian Bach.” – “I knew it was something unpronounceable.” Both chuckled.

 

“I’m Sherlock.”

  
After that day, Bob visited Sherlock each afternoon at that same spot where Sherlock broke down crying days before. It was mostly Bob who talked however, telling Sherlock how he had messed up his life by being in the wrong place at the wrong time and how he had tried to gain some money as a street artist after he had done his time. “My guitar was all I had left so I made some use of it.” He laughingly said. “I made a living with it for some time. People knew me as “La barba roja” because of my strikingly red beard. They actually liked my stuff though. But then unfortunately I got into a brawl and I broke my left hand, middle finger and my pinkie. My career as a street guitarist was over there and then because of some ignorant, bigoted pricks.” Sherlock could not tell whether Bob was angry or depressed because of this. Probably both.

When Sherlock asked why he got into that fight, the man hesitated. Until he explained. “I’m gay, kid. I’ve always been. I used to have a lover back then and we hung out here and there, might’ve shared some kisses in public. All of a sudden two heavy men stood in front of us and started striking at us with heavy fists without saying anything except ‘You asked for it, you gay cunts’. We had to be brought to the hospital.” He stopped, looking into the forest with watery eyes. “But I never saw Chris again…never knew what happened to him.” Bob took what looked like a thick cigarette out of his pocket and ignited it. A penetrating smell reached Sherlock’s nostrils. He had only smelled this once before, on the day he had met Bob.

 

Bob started to smoke his joints more often around Sherlock and Sherlock, as he was, became more and more curious about it. “Why does he smoke this awful smelling thing?” he asked himself until curiosity had gained the upper hand.

“Can I try, Bob?” – “No way, kid. You should not try such things.” – “Look at you being such a good example.” – “Yeah, right. I’m homeless, kid, in case you forgot.” Sherlock tilted his head and tried his best puppy face on Bob. It always worked on father. “Alright, kid, alright. But just one pull, do you hear me? And that’s it. That’s all the experimenting you’ll do for the rest of your life.”

 

One pull became half a joint over the course of five weeks. And Bob let him. He let him have it because he saw what Mycroft used to see in him. The troubles in his mind. The boy behind the sassy façade. The marijuana unlocked Sherlock’s tongue and his thoughts came flowing out of his mouth like a waterfall which had otherwise ended up drowning him.

“What is wrong with me, Bob?” Sherlock asked one afternoon. Bob looked at him, overplaying his sadness with a weak but confirmative smile. “Nothing, kid. There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s the world. The world doesn’t like different. People are afraid of it. People hate what they can’t understand. That’s why people like you and I suffer.” Bob paused, stood up and put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Stay true yourself, Sherlock, you’re a bright kid. Don’t let that go to waste.” Then he turned away and vanished into the forest.

 

When Sherlock came back to the fire place the day after, he found Bob’s guitar lying on the floor next to the wall. But Bob was nowhere to be seen.  
Sherlock had waited for him to return, every break, every afternoon, playing the violin to keep his mind from panicking. Futile.

 

Sherlock has dozed off. A strong wind is blowing into his room from the window behind him and his tiny curls fall one by one into his eyes. Sherlock opens his eyes and looks around him. His room is a chaos: Papers are whirled around by the wind, his books are scattered all over the floor. He gets on his feet and tries to straighten up the mess but the wind keeps blowing in Sherlock’s face so he can barely keep his eyes open.

Then, all of a sudden, the whole house starts to shake and rock as if an earthquake had just hit it. He grabs hold of the blackboard to his left and is thrown back into his sofa by a sudden tremor.

 

“What’s going on?”

 

Sherlock gazes up to the blackboard. He blinks. He blinks again.

 

“ALONE IS ALL I HAVE. ALONE PROTECTS ME.”

 

Baffled, he looks up to the ceiling and a heavy raindrop falls on his forehead. Then another one. And another one.

 

It starts pelting down.

 

Suddenly he feels a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Bob?”

 

“Wake up, Sherlock!” a familiar voice calls from behind him.

 

The rain stops.

 

Sherlock opens his eyes. Dark clouds have covered the blue sky and heavy raindrops are falling onto the leaves of the trees. But not on him.

 

Someone is holding a black umbrella over him.

Even more confused than before, Sherlock turns his head to face Mycroft’s.

  
“Oh, Sherlock.”

 

Mycroft is holding up what is left from Sherlock’s joint.

 

“I told you not to get involved, Sherlock. Caring is not an advantage.”


End file.
